She said I spoke her life

when I spit my suicide

to teenage Bible campers

who might never hear our story otherwise

"At the age of eight,

I had a handle on my life,

and connecting to that handle

was the blade of a knife..."

Little did I know

razors had once touched the flow

of her young life

Drawn across her arms

the epic poem of her strife

Like an evangelizing jailbird

I sang her life with my words;

I had never known poetry could do that

I was begging to be heard

I didn't expect to make impact

I just didn't want to be alone

I didn't know someone's very soul

would connect

and I thought that she was just a pretty girl.

and I thought I was alone in this world.

Stupid me, but stupid is as stupid does,

and dis dummy done good

if this angel found wings

in my box of chocolates.

And to think, I was trying to rock it,

attemptin to elicit

applause with my trauma 

I was selfish

'til I fucked up

and helped a chick.

She thanks me,

and plants something in my chest.

What is this?

This uplifing feeling

speaking to my inner demon

saying, "You don't have to spit


not even battling those who

speak your detraction;

Son of Creation

you are capable of healing."

Oh shit, I mean,

Oh, my God, I think I'm capable of healing.



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